


In the Dumps

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [23]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Canon Compliant, Depression, M/M, Protective Mycroft, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:16:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8130127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: “Doctor Watson, I presume?” he intoned, striding into the room. He removed his hat and gloves and made a bow to me. I noticed that he carried a walking stick with an elaborate silver head.Dr. John Watson reminisces about the first time Sherlock experienced a bout of depression after they began sharing rooms—and a revealing visit.





	

I have been reflecting on how very different our lives our now—mine and Sherlock’s—than when we first began to share diggings. At that time, the novelty of everything was nearly overwhelming—living in London, sharing rooms, and of course assisting in and chronicling the infamous exploits of the consulting detective. At the beginning, in addition to being somewhat hampered by my still-healing shoulder and leg, I was still quite weakened by my terrible injuries in Afghanistan and the subsequent illness that nearly took my life, but that of course has changed. I do wonder if I would have recovered quite so swiftly and so completely if I was not being persuaded to run across moors and climb roofs and all of the ridiculous things I do for my mad man—I believe a great deal of my recovery was simple self-preservation. And I am glad for it.  
  
In the earliest days, my writing was somewhat of a whim. I did not start out writing about any of his cases for publication. I was simply so intrigued by both the crimes and the detective that I wanted to capture my experiences for myself—but in doing so, I found that I could rather entertain myself by turning the interviews and investigations and deductions into stories. I admit to being influenced somewhat by the sensational yellow-backed novels in which I indulged (and Sherlock has never minded); sometimes when I was reading one I would think to myself that certainly I would not have had a character say something a certain way, or that I could have chosen five alternate words to the prosaic ones chosen by the author.  
  
And I certainly had a rich source of material—currently sitting on a high stool at his table of chemicals, using a pipette to add a blue liquid to a beaker of something an unappetizing shade of green (did it just move on its own? He is not leaving that vile stuff sitting there when he is done). My ridiculous man.  
  
So one night—it was a dark and stormy one, if I recall correctly, keeping us indoors with the fire blazing and the curtains closed tightly against drafts—I sat myself at my desk, took a few sheets of foolscap and a brand-new pen (a gift from Mrs Hudson), and simply began to write.  
  
I am so very glad that I did. My readers are, as well, and although Sherlock condescends and deplores and insults every word I put down, I know that he is secretly quite pleased to be such a subject of fascination and is proud of my accomplishments. He does sometimes express a fondness for some of my tales. [Sherlock has noted: _I am hardly in the dog one, but some are tolerable._ ]  
  
But I am losing the scent, as it were. I started out considering how changed my life is from what it was—how our lives together have changed, and considering what we have just been through—three weeks of absolute misery and even fear—I am recalling quite clearly the first time I encountered Sherlock Holmes “in the dumps”—which is an understatement that I regret not addressing terribly effectively at the first.  
  
No, I had no idea what that little phrase truly meant. Here is what transpired—  
  
*  
  
“Are you all right?” I had been growing more concerned about Sherlock by the day. He moved about in a dreamy, distant way, not answering questions. He would sit at the table at mealtimes, but more often than not after a bit he would rise again, leaving his food untouched, and stretch himself out on the sofa, his eyes shut and his fingers steepled and just resting on his lower lip.  
  
“Yes, I’m all right,” he replied now, but the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes made it clear that he had barely heard my question.  
  
“I don’t think that you are,” I responded. “Let me check you.”  
  
He barely seemed to notice as I took his pulse and rested my wrist on his forehead. I fetched my stethoscope and listened to his heart and his lungs. “Look at me,” I requested. His eyes were clear. I prodded gently at his neck. “Open up,” I instructed and he did; his throat looked fine.  
  
No. Medically speaking, I had found nothing. “You have no other symptoms, but you seem distracted,” I commented.  
  
“Thinking.”  
  
I sighed. “All right. Shall I leave you alone for a bit?”  
  
He didn’t reply.  
  
I gathered up my coat and hat and let myself out the street door. I was going to take a long walk.  
  
I had been doing quite a bit of that.  
  
*  
  
The bell startled me; I had been engrossed in a recent medical journal and had tuned out my surroundings—quite deliberately, I might add. I was greatly concerned about Sherlock, but I felt that my constant attentions were distressing rather than helping him, so I had stepped back from my efforts to draw him out.  
  
The problem was that there was nothing to draw out. He could not explain to me what was ailing him. I had already established for myself, in agreement with what he kept insisting, that he did not suffer from any particular physical ailment. He now would not speak at all, and he would neither eat nor drink, but it was not due to any sore throat or biliousness. Sometimes he did not seem to have the energy to even sit up, and then there were bursts of nervous energy that led to a great deal of pacing, and he would sometimes press himself against the glass of the windows that overlooked the street and stare out longingly—at what, I do not know.  
  
He would sit on the floor on some cushions and stare into the fire, his legs pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them. Sometimes he would rock and sometimes he would pull at his hair.  
  
He now absolutely refused to look at me, going so far as to turn his head away when I tried engaging his attention. It was of interest to me that, even when repulsing my efforts at contact so vigorously, he did not actually shut his eyes. He never seemed to shut his eyes. He would not—or possibly could not—sleep.  
  
I was at a loss. Back then, the great developers of our modern perspective and understanding of psychiatry were just beginning their outstanding work on recognising insanity in all its forms as a disease of the mind, just as others were discovering the true nature of the diseases of the body. I admit that that early in my career I did not view my friend’s behaviour as an illness in the way cholera or tuberculosis was, but then neither did the vast majority of those in the medical field. There was an exceptional group of men who thought otherwise, but their beliefs were not as well-known back then—I am making a great number of excuses for my ignorance.  
  
But ignorance it was, and Sherlock’s inability to articulate his torment—the nature of it, the cause, even the lengths of these fits that seized him…  
  
He, of course, had warned me at our very first meeting of these periods of melancholia, but as he did not experience such a low time immediately, I somewhat put his words about sometimes getting “in the dumps” behind myself. Besides, I wondered, what would a few days of sulking mean to me, anyway? I certainly found myself in a foul mood for a few days at a time more than once—is that all he meant? If so, I would simply do as he requested and leave him alone until it passed.  
  
I do recall now, however—so distinctly it could have happened yesterday—how that first horrible mood seized him. Mrs Hudson was bringing up an early tea, as we had plans to attend a concert and have a late supper in a restaurant afterwards. I was looking forward to it—a chance to don evening dress, to enjoy the music, and then to discuss the programme over some lovely meal and a bottle of wine. It would not be the first such evening we enjoyed together, so I was rather shocked when, like a terrible maelstrom engulfing the city and paralysing it, the first dark clouds began to gather in the sky.  
  
Nothing was making him happy—or, more accurately—everything was making him unhappy. He fussed about the tea Mrs Hudson had brought up—bread and butter and lovely, hot tea. I was a bit taken aback. I was accustomed, even in those early days, to his eschewing good, nourishing food in preference for sweets, but this was different.  
  
“What is this?” he snarled, staring at the good food laid out on our table.  
  
“It’s fresh butter, and Mrs Hudson has outdone herself with this bread—it really is a bit of heaven. Sit down and have some.” (I was already in the habit of addressing him at times as a truculent child.)  
  
“It’s disgusting,” he sniffed, turning his back.  
  
“How do you know that if you haven’t even come within three feet of the table?” I challenged.  
  
He did not reply.  
  
“Come have some tea, then. You always like that,” I cajoled.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Holmes, we’re going to be dining rather late. I am certain that you will enjoy the music more if you have a bite now.”  
  
“I said that I do not want anything—do you not listen, you fool?” he shouted.  
  
Dumbfounded, I stared as he stormed off to his bedroom, slamming the door. I lost my own appetite at that point, mechanically finishing what I had on my plate but not really tasting it.  
  
A while later, I hesitantly knocked on his door. “Holmes, I’m going to dress now. Are you all right?”  
  
I did not receive a response of any sort. Manners be damned—I opened the door unbidden. Sherlock was sitting at his dressing table (being in his bedroom was still a bit of a novelty at that point—I am not certain what fascinated me more—the portraits of criminals that lined the walls or the theatrical make-up and paraphernalia that covered his dressing table), his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. He did not flinch or indicate in any way that he was aware of my entrance. That was enough to propel me across the room (his dressing table was, as it is still now, tucked behind his bed) and next to him.  
  
“Holmes?” I nearly whispered. “Are you all right?” I laid a hand on his shoulder. He slowly turned his head and stared at me. “Can I help?” I added.  
  
“My dear Watson… I can’t… so many bits…” He waved one hand toward his wardrobe and dresser.  
  
I have no idea how I knew, that early on, what he meant or what I needed to do to help him, but somehow I did. “Shall I lay it all out for you?” I inquired calmly.  
  
“Would you?” His voice was tinged with desperation.  
  
“Of course. What else do you need? I truly believe that you will feel better once we are at the hall. Music always uplifts you.” I turned and opened his wardrobe and carefully began to withdraw the elements of his evening clothes.  
  
*  
  
My instincts, at least at the moment, were correct, and once I had laid everything out, he seemed to rally a bit, standing and waving me out of the room as he stared at the elegant trousers and shirt and—well, all the bits—that I had placed on his bed, being especially attentive to arranging all the items so that they could be easily donned in order. Eventually he emerged from his bedroom (I had retired to my own bedroom and donned my evening apparel, then waited for him in our sitting room) dressed as elegantly as he ever did. Truly, he could have appeared in a tailor’s advertisement, so beautiful was he.  
  
I sensed, however, that he was not himself, and therefore took the lead—a cloak for him, an overcoat for me, and silk hats for each of us, tickets in my pocket-book, and I literally guided him down the stairs to the street and hailed a cab. I realise now that it might have looked a bit odd, but in the moment I did not care one whit—I put one gloved hand on each of his shoulders and encouraged him to descend the stairs and head out the street door. He was so very complacent then—standing and waiting patiently as I whistled for a hansom. I had timed things generously, so we were not pressed to arrive at the theatre.  
  
“Have a cigarette,” I encouraged, reaching into his pocket for his case and matches. He allowed me to extract a cigarette, place it between his lips, and light it for him. I realised then that he had not been smoking—not since his after-breakfast pipe—or had he had that? Or breakfast, for that matter?  
  
It did seem to stimulate him a bit; he began to take notice of our surroundings and, as always thrilled me, to explain to me the music that we were about to enjoy. I always got some much more out of our evenings when he did so—I was (and still am not) an expert by any means, but I have found that understanding more about the composer and the pieces did wonders for my appreciation.  
  
He seemed content during the performance; he was not perhaps quite as entranced as he sometimes became, but he was still and attentive. There was an interval, during which I sought out the gents, but he remained in his seat, motionless and silent.  
  
I admit now that I have no idea to what we listened, nor of my own reaction to it. I was focused so much more on my companion. I would glance over at him furtively, to view his unique profile in the dim gaslight.  
  
I wanted to, so much, even then, reach out and touch his hand; his face.  
  
No—this is for my own remembrance. What I wanted to do was to reach out and hold him in my arms. I wanted to draw him into my lap and gaze into his eyes. I wanted to kiss his forehead and check him for illness and remove his formal clothing and get him into a soft nightshirt and tuck him into his bed.  
  
I was hopelessly in love with him and my heart ached to observe him so low.  
  
I did not admit, even to myself at that early stage, that that was what I was feeling, but looking back, it most certainly was—particularly my compulsion to tend to him.  
  
I am not certain if I should consider myself “fortunate” in that that evening actually unfolded exactly as I desired. After the concert reached its conclusion and the crowd began to wander out of the theatre, I linked his arm with mine and guided him out to the street—did I fuss a bit settling his cloak and hat on him? Yes, I did. He was entirely in my hands, though. He did not seem to have the internal fortitude to accomplish something as simple as preparing himself for the night air, let alone hailing a cab, so I tended to all.  
  
I had already discarded the concept of supper. I knew that he would not eat nor drink, and I admit that I had no heart to do so either. I could have a drink once we reached Baker Street.  
  
*  
  
There. He was in bed. As I had predicted, he had been eerily complacent, allowing me to direct all of his movements. I released my grasp on his elbow only long enough to use my latch key, and then regained it to direct him gently upstairs. Mrs Hudson (bless her) popped out into the vestibule when we gained our entrance, wondering at our early return, but without a word exchanged between us, she seemed to understand.  
  
_Tea?_ she asked by simply moving her lips.  
  
I nodded and began to move my inert mass up the seventeen steps.  
  
It was painfully apparent that he would not be able to undress himself. I ushered him into his bedroom, got him seated on the bed, and began to remove his formal garments. Even now—out of habit, apparently—he sat straight, but he seemed unaware of my attentions. I found his nightclothes and gently (affectionately?) garbed him in them.  
  
“Wait here,” I instructed quietly as I ducked through the adjoining door to my own bedroom and did likewise to myself. I left the door open, of course, and made random comments aloud as I undressed. I do not recall in the slightest of what I spoke. It did not matter that night, nor does it now. As soon as I was comfortable, I returned to him and with gentle tugs, drew him to the sitting room again.  
  
I will not detail the efforts to which both Mrs Hudson and I went that evening—suffice it to say that cajoling and pleading and a great deal of checking on him—did he have a fever? Did he feel ill? —and finally we admitted defeat. Our indomitable landlady finally admitted to fatigue and retired, and once her footsteps faded, I suggested the same for both of us.  
  
I led him into his bedroom and got him tucked into his bed and left him to enter my own, knowing that he would not sleep. I left our adjoining door open, of course.  
  
*  
  
I did not sleep well. I awoke several times, always to the sound of Sherlock tossing and turning; getting the bedclothes in a hopeless tangle. Sometimes I could hear him whimpering; he was desperate for sleep, but it would not come. I debated rising and giving him something to help.  
  
*  
  
So, yes, three days after our outing, the bell startled me.  
  
We had been sharing diggings for approximately three months. We were still Watson and Holmes to one another. I was already in the habit of doctoring him quite a bit—for his headaches and injuries and illnesses. I had witnessed one episode of his mania but had not yet encountered him at his lowest. But now I was. This was not to be the worst episode, but it was the first, and far preceded any understanding on my own part that this was an illness.  
  
And now this was my first introduction to Mycroft Holmes.  
  
Yes, as I have said elsewhere in my private writing, I knew not only of the existence of the elder brother but was actually well-acquainted with him very early on in my friendship with Sherlock, but because of his position and responsibilities, for years I could not reveal that Sherlock even had a brother.  
  
It had been three fairly sleepless nights for both of us. I had risen quite sluggishly and dressed. I looked in on Sherlock then. He was lying on his side, with his back to the door. “Holmes?” I called out softly. I walked across the room and laid my hand on his shoulder, rolling him gently onto his back. His face was wet with tears; his eyes red.  
  
I did not know how to address his condition. He seemed utterly unable to respond to me at first; I was not certain that he was even truly cognisant of my presence. Finally, though, he took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped his hand across his face.  
  
“Go away, Watson, won’t you?” he begged, his voice hoarse.  
  
I nodded and walked away from him.  
  
I had little appetite for breakfast, but I did partake of more than one cup of coffee, and then tried to settle myself to reading a medical journal.  
  
The bell rang, and I listened to the familiar sounds of Mrs Hudson crossing the vestibule; opening the street door. There was a murmured conversation and then, to my surprise, I heard an unfamiliar tread on the stairs. That was not what usually occurred. When we had a visitor, our landlady would usually bring a card up to us first, or if the stranger had no card, she would inquire for a name and the nature of the visitor’s business—this was an absolute necessity in that, more often than not, she needed to give us time to make ourselves and the room presentable.  
  
I was even more surprised when the door separating our sitting room from the hallway opened—no one had knocked. I rose hurriedly, dropping my journal, alarmed at this intrusion.  
  
[Sherlock has noted: _It should have occurred to you that Mrs Hudson would not have allowed anyone to ascend the stairs without introduction unless it was someone she knew and trusted._ ]  
  
[John’s response: _How very silly of me. Do be quiet._ ]  
  
There on the threshold stood a man nearly as arresting in appearance as my friend. He was taller, but had the same lean frame and sharp features. His hair was dark and trimmed neatly. He was clean-shaven but sported somewhat old-fashioned, modest sideburns. He did not share Sherlock’s ivory-toned skin, but he was certainly not ruddy, either. He was, however, as impeccably dressed as Sherlock ever was—and he most certainly had the same piercing and queer grey eyes.  
  
“Doctor Watson, I presume?” he intoned, striding into the room. He removed his hat and gloves and made a bow to me. I noticed that he carried a walking stick with an elaborate silver head.  
  
“Yes, I am Doctor Watson,” I responded, making it clear from the tone of my voice that I was rather more than a bit taken aback by his forwardness. “May I ask who you are?”  
  
“I am Mycroft Holmes.”  
  
“Excuse me?” I stammered, sounding like an idiot. I was completely shocked, even as I absorbed the physical similarities between the two men.  
  
“Ah. My brother has not mentioned me, I take it. May I?” He indicated his hat and motioned toward the rack by the door.  
  
“Oh… of course,” I managed. “Forgive my manners. Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea?”  
  
“No thank you,” he demurred. “I have come to see my brother. He is in his bed, is he not?”  
  
“Yes… he is not well. I do not think that—”  
  
He cut me off with a sharp wave of his hand. “That is precisely why I need to see him,” he informed me, and before I could respond to that, he turned and strode directly into Sherlock’s bedroom, once again without knocking.  
  
I followed, protesting. “He does not wish to have visitors,” I attempted to explain. I entered the room and was astonished at the sight. Mycroft Holmes—or whoever he claimed he was—had crossed the room and without preamble seated himself on Sherlock’s bed. He was leaning over the inert figure buried under the covers.  
  
“Sherlock,” he said, quietly and calmly, “How bad is it?”  
  
“My head is so heavy,” came the weak response.  
  
“But you wish to raise it? That is a positive sign. You know that.”  
  
A slight motion; Sherlock must have nodded.  
  
“Holmes?” I called out. “Are you all right? I told him not to disturb you.”  
  
“It is perfectly fine, Doctor,” the impeccably-dressed man said rather sharply. “My brother needs me here.”  
  
“It is all right, Watson,” Sherlock managed. “Please, leave us alone for a bit.”  
  
“Perhaps I will take some coffee,” his brother added.  
  
So I left them alone and rang the bell and when Mrs Hudson came up I stopped her from entering the room; I withdrew with her to the hallway and whispered, “Who is that? What is this all about?”  
  
“I am sorry, Doctor. I have strict instructions not to mention Mr Holmes.”  
  
“Who is he?” I demanded.  
  
“He is his elder brother, and I am not supposed to talk about him, so I don’t know what else I am permitted to tell you. You will have to ask them. Shall I bring up some coffee?”  
  
“Yes. Please.” I was utterly baffled, so I returned to the sitting room and began pacing.  
  
The door to Sherlock’s bedroom was now closed, I noted. I was truly uncomfortable and alarmed. Sherlock was in no condition to defend himself if this were any kind of attack—even if just a cerebral one—for I heard only the lowest of murmurs of voices.  
  
Our landlady came up with a tray holding a pot of fresh, hot coffee and clean cups and placed it on the table. She glanced over at the shut door, gave me a hesitant smile, and without a word exited.  
  
It was probably only twenty minutes, but it seemed like hours that they remained behind that closed door. I knew that I could probably overhear their conversation if I listened at the door that adjoined our bedrooms, but I suspected that they would both know if I attempted this. Finally, I determined to interrupt them.  
  
Just then, the door opened.  
  
I was startled by the sight of my friend, clad now in a dressing gown, being propelled into the sitting room by his brother’s hand on his elbow. He walked unsteadily, his head down, and allowed the older man to escort him to his favourite chair. He immediately curled up in it, his legs drawn up and his arms around them, hiding his face on his knees as he so often did.  
  
“Ah, coffee! Excellent,” the slender man now exclaimed, helping himself before I could even offer him a cup. “Sherlock, would you like some? Can you manage a cup?”  
  
The head of dark curls moved back and forth; he was shaking his head “no.”  
  
“Very well. Doctor, may we sit and talk for a bit?”  
  
I nodded dumbly and seated myself across from my friend as his brother gracefully lowered himself into the wicker chair we generally used for clients.  
  
“I suppose you have questions,” he began.  
  
“A hundred or so,” I admitted, “but I don’t know where to begin.”  
  
“Then I shall explain myself and my brother and endeavour to enlighten you.”  
  
“Please.”  
  
Mycroft Holmes sighed and, with a sad smile, began.  
  
“I realise that until this morning you had no idea that I existed, but please do not blame my brother for that. It was not an oversight but a purposeful omission. He and your landlady have been given explicit instructions not to mention me unless it becomes an absolute necessity.”  
  
“And it is now necessary,” I realised, “because of Holmes’ illness.”  
  
“Precisely.” He withdrew an impressive pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “I do not have a great deal of time. I will have to make this brief. Yes, it is exactly because of Sherlock’s illness that I am here.  
  
“You see, my brother has been thus afflicted with these periods of melancholia since he was a young man. He is equally prone to fits of mania. It is an unnamed malady, but our mother suffered in the same manner. Based on my experience with both of them, there is very little that anyone can do to alleviate their distress—and please understand that it is truly and deeply distressing.”  
  
“How did you know to come?”  
  
“Your landlady sent me a message.”  
  
“And did not inform me.” I admit that I sounded a bit angry—even those few months together had made me protective of the man and of my relationship with him. I was jealous.  
  
“Do not direct any ire at Mrs Hudson, Doctor. She did precisely what I have instructed her to do—she does not mention me and she only communicates with me when my brother is afflicted in such a manner. Of course, now that you are here—I suppose all of this should have been revealed earlier.”  
  
“He did allude to sometimes getting ‘in the dumps’ when we first met, but this is the first time that I have observed it.”  
  
“He sometimes goes for months without any episodes, but you were bound to encounter both his low times and his manias over time. I must say, when I found out that he was sharing rooms with a doctor, I felt rather a sense of relief. I believe that he is now, for the most part, in good hands.”  
  
“Thank you for that,” I murmured, “but I have no idea how to treat him.”  
  
“You know as much as I do. You know that he hasn’t been eating or sleeping; that he is exhausted and sorrowful about nothing in particular. What he needs when he is like this is for someone such as yourself to encourage him to eat a little; to assure him that the mood will eventually pass. Stay by his side if he wishes for company—and for comfort—but do not press him overmuch, especially when he seems particularly distressed. I know that I am asking quite a bit of you, but I would not if I did not think that you were capable.  
  
“And now I really must be going. When he is feeling more like himself, he will explain more.”  
  
He rose, placed his coffee cup on the table, and retrieved his hat, gloves, and stick.  
  
“Oh, one more thing.” He withdrew a wallet and placed a card on the table. “This is where you can reach me if you have a need.”  
  
And then he walked out and left me with an astonished expression on my face.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock remained seated for some time after the door shut. I tidied the table and tucked the card, which bore no name but an address, into my desk. Finally, I could bear it no longer. I sat back down, leaning forward toward my friend.  
  
“Holmes?” I said hesitantly. “Can I do anything for you?”  
  
He shook his head.  
  
*  
  
This particular episode—the first I was to witness—lasted approximately ten days in total. He spent a great deal of time in his bedroom. I did, of course, look in on him constantly, and sometimes brought him tea or some of Mrs Hudson’s good soup. I did as his brother had instructed, speaking gently to him, encouraging him to take some nourishment (I sometimes sat up with him in his bed and actually held the teacup or the spoon to his lips), and assuring him that the horrid mood would eventually pass.  
  
Finally, early one afternoon, he emerged just as I was returning from a trip to the tobacconist’s. He was somewhat dressed—trousers and an unfastened shirt; his feet bare. In a word, his typical self.  
  
“Hullo, Watson,” he said rather shyly. “Did you get more of that cherry tobacco that we both enjoyed?”  
  
“They did not have any—I did ask. I got Player’s.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“You are feeling somewhat better?” I hung up my hat and coat.  
  
“A bit, yes.”  
  
“Do you feel up to talking?”  
  
“I suppose you want to know more about Mycroft,” he sighed.  
  
“Among other things, yes.”  
  
*  
  
He ended up sitting on the floor on a few cushions, facing the fireplace, as was his wont, and I sat back in my chair. He fidgeted with his pipe. “What do you wish to know?” he finally asked, getting his pipe drawing properly.  
  
“Well, the first thing, I suppose, is why you have never mentioned him—or rather, why he has commanded you and Mrs Hudson not to mention him.”  
  
He took a deep breath. “My brother holds a unique position in the government, and the less that is known of his existence, the better.”  
  
“Whatever does that mean?”  
  
“Surely, Watson, you are aware that governing this empire is not simply a matter of signing papers and making speeches.”  
  
I was not certain how to respond to that, so I remained silent.  
  
“Officially, my brother audits the books of some of the government departments. Unofficially, he is the eyes and ears and sometimes the voice of those at the highest levels.”  
  
“He is a spy?” I exclaimed in some disbelief.  
  
Sherlock chuckled and puffed on his pipe. “Not quite. But in order to do his job effectively, he must remain completely anonymous—which is why I have not mentioned his existence and now you are not to, either.”  
  
“All right,” I agreed. “But I would like to learn more about him, if that is permissible.”  
  
Sherlock proceeded to describe his brother—his observational powers that rivalled and even surpassed my friend’s; his almost impossibly energetic lifestyle. His ability to function on no more than four hours of sleep a night. The great ambition that had led to his unique position in the government. His erratic schedule and lifestyle. In short, yes, when I was finally permitted to reveal the existence of Mycroft Holmes, many years later, I obscured all but a very few facts about the man by essentially reversing them. And so my readers know about a Mycroft Holmes who is corpulent and unambitious; who is sedentary and habitual to the extreme. I was permitted to include a few truths—his observational skills truly do exceed Sherlock’s in many ways, he truly is seven years his senior, and the existence of the Diogenes Club is a fact (that is, of course, not its true name nor its location, but otherwise it does exist exactly as I have described) were the extent of it. Mycroft is not even the name by which he is known.  
  
Our involvement in the disturbing case of the Greek interpreter unfolded quite as published, except that my introduction to the man described within it was a complete fabrication, of course, created from various conversations we have had over the years. I have heard it said that that particular tale contains some hints that it occurred much longer ago than I have described, and it more than likely does. (My tending to Sherlock after his exposure to the deadly gas that took the life of the poor man who had been held captive for so long was omitted—but he was exposed far more than I have described and was quite ill.)  
  
[Sherlock has interjected, sideways along the margin: _I would have been perfectly fine; there was no need to fuss over me so._ ]  
  
[John has replied: _You collapsed and you were sick three times—that hardly seems “fine.” But you were very brave and I am very proud of you._ ]  
  
So Sherlock satisfied—in part at least—my curiosity about his brother, and then it was time to broach my second subject.  
  
“I do not suppose I have to tell you this, but I have been greatly concerned about you. You did warn me, I suppose, about these moods of yours, but I had no idea they were so severe. You should have told me.”  
  
He ducked his head. “I apologise for that. When I am not in the throes of such an attack, I both tend to forget how debilitating they can be and somehow hope that I will not experience one again. I do realise at this stage of my life that that is unlikely, but somehow I still wish it to be true. Sometimes I go for quite a while between these fits, and that gives me a false hope that they have somehow subsided forever.”  
  
I nodded. I felt (still feel) the same way about my war wounds. For long periods of time they do not cause me pain, and I am lulled into a false sense that they have finally, completely healed and will never interfere with me again, and then I experience an unusually cold, wet day or a particularly hard run or other form of violent exercise and the next day I am in agony and frustrated and angry about it.  
  
[Sherlock has written, in quite small letters: _And when you do experience this would you please allow me to tend to you as you tend to me? You are a horrible patient._ ]  
  
[John’s response: _Most doctors are._ ]  
  
“But then,” he continued, “if I look at it objectively—observe it, as I would in someone else—I would be forced to point out that my mother, who also suffered from these moods, did so for her entire life.”  
  
“I am sorry to hear of it,” I answered honestly, and I admit here that inside myself I felt a horrible dismay at the thought of him experiencing these fits for the rest of his life.  
  
“But now that you know the extent of it…” he paused and seemed unable to continue.  
  
“Now that I know the extent of it…?” I prompted him.  
  
“Will you leave?” he suddenly burst out, spinning on his cushions to look into my eyes. “Will you move away?”  
  
“What?” I was genuinely shocked. “No, of course not. Whatever makes you think that?”  
  
“Because I am awful and difficult and distress people and have no control over these fits…” He collapsed down onto himself again, hiding his beautiful features from my eyes.  
  
“Oh, Holmes!” I cried, lunging out of my chair and sinking to my knees in front of him. “No, of course not. I would not leave you. Not ever.”  
  
I do realise now that my admission of this level of dedication was a bit prescient, but I was being completely candid. I had no desire nor inclination at that moment to leave him any longer than it took for me to go to the tobacconists.  
  
He remained silent for a few moments, his head down and his countenance obscured from me. “Do you mean that?” he finally asked, mumbling against his knees.  
  
“Yes, I do. I would not abandon you—I will not. Sherlock Holmes _contra mundum._ ”  
  
He raised his head and smiled that shy, innocent smile that I adore so very much.  
  
[Sherlock’s codicil is plaintive and revealing: _But you did leave me and you do leave me sometimes even now and it is because I am so horrid. I suppose I deserve it._  
  
_But I do love you so very much, John. Please do not leave me again. It frightens me so._ ]  
  



End file.
